


Cold Turkey

by hwshipper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Open Relationships, Sick!Wilson, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for sickwilson_fest prompt: Wilson/OMC. After seeing how stressed Wilson is at work, Wilson's lover decides to make it the best holiday (Christmas/Thanksgiving/Hanukkah, your choice) ever, and decides to cook for him. But something goes wrong with the turkey, and Wilson ends up with severe food poisoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> As prompt. It's Thanksgiving time. Set post-infarction, but pre-canon.  
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
> Beta: the srsly wonderful srsly_yes

**Cold Turkey**

"I have to work Thanksgiving," Wilson broke the news with a sigh and a pinched nose. "My staff are dropping like flies with this flu going round, and there's just no way I can take the time off."

"Oh." Chris turned his head, trying to hide his disappointment. "Never mind."

"I'm sorry, I know you were looking forward to it," Wilson added. "What with House being away, I mean."

"Doesn't matter." Chris shrugged in what he hoped was a careless gesture, but the truth was, House's absence was indeed a large part of why Chris had been looking forward to Thanksgiving. House was _never_ away. He was always hanging around in the background, popping up to prod Wilson and bug Chris.

"You could still go to Florida with Linus, if you want," Wilson suggested.

"No no, I don't want." Chris spoke sincerely this time. He'd been looking forward to spending some quality holiday time with Wilson, not rampaging around Palm Beach watching Linus trying to get laid. Amusing though that could be. "Look, even if you have to work, we can still make something of it, right?"

"Not on the day. I'll be working a double shift until late Thursday, I'll be too tired to drive two hours after that. But I could come down to you the following day, Friday?" Wilson offered.

"Or I could come up to Princeton on Thursday night," Chris offered back, unwilling to lose a precious night with Wilson. It was a departure from their plan, which had been for Wilson to come to Chris's house by the Jersey Shore and take in the shoreline and fresh, salty air.

Bushy eyebrows raised. "Yeah, if you don't mind?"

"'Course not." Chris was pleased. "We can crash on Thursday night and go out for a good meal on Friday instead."

"It's a date," Wilson declared.

* * *

  
Chris had been self-employed since he was twenty-one, and never made a sacrifice for work that he hadn't chosen to make. He pictured an endless parade of sick patients, cancer-ridden children too ill to go home for Thanksgiving, and was sorry for Wilson.

He went for Thanksgiving lunch at his steakhouse on the New Jersey shore. Among various bars and restaurants, Chris owned a steakhouse which specialised in above-average prime rib, good quality burgers, and piping hot tasty fries. Poultry usually meant barbecue chicken, but the chef had put on a 'Turkey Special' dish for the holiday. Chris sampled it and hey, it was good. He wished Wilson was there to share it with him.

He went into the kitchen afterward to thank the chef.

"Marinated in beer and honey," his chef related proudly. "It's been real popular. Hope people keep ordering it today. Nobody's gonna order turkey at a steakhouse tomorrow."

"Cool." Chris glanced around the kitchen. He wasn't much given to grand impulsive gestures, but an idea shot into his brain and snagged in his skull.

"Could you give me some to go?" he asked his chef, who looked duly surprised. "I'm going up to Princeton to see Wilson tonight. He won't have had a Thanksgiving dinner, and I think he'd go for beer and honey marinated turkey."

"This is for Wilson? Of course!" the chef exclaimed. "I'll put a meal together. How about some pumpkin pie to go with it? Made from fresh pumpkin, I roasted it myself yesterday."

All Chris's staff liked Wilson. What was there not to like? Before long a veritable feast had been packed up neatly in foil containers of varying sizes and packed into bags: juicy hunks of turkey, green bean casserole, honey glazed carrots, velvety mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce and a slab of pumpkin pie. At the last minute the chef popped in a Thermos of butternut squash soup. Chris stacked everything up carefully in the back of his car, and headed off to Princeton.

* * *

  
Two hours later, he was there. He let himself into Wilson's apartment, laden with food, and decided he would give Wilson a sight to come home to. He set about dressing the dining table with tablecloths, candles, napkins. Feeling grubby after the journey, he showered and abandoned his T-shirt and jeans for a newly laundered button-down shirt and pants.

Late in the evening, Wilson called to say he was on his way home.

"Hey, I picked up some food on the way here," Chris said with feigned nonchalance. "Hope you're hungry."

"Sure am," Wilson said. "I think I managed half an apple at lunch. And House wasn't even around to eat the other half."

As per instructions from the chef, Chris fired up the oven and heated up all the foil containers until they were piping hot. He dished it all up, and by the time Wilson walked in the door it was a model meal; table groaning under the weight of bronzed turkey, glossy vegetables, and steaming potatoes.

Wilson's shoulders were weighed down with fatigue and lank hair was plastered across his forehead. He stopped dead when he saw the feast on the table.

"Wow! It's a proper dinner! Chris, this.... this is amazing! Just _look_ at that turkey!"

"Yeah, anyone would think it was Thanksgiving or something," Chris deadpanned, strolling up for a kiss.

"Seriously!" Wilson was standing up straighter, his eyes were brighter, he was shedding tiredness every second. "No-one's ever done anything like this for me before. This is the best Thanksgiving ever."

Chris was delighted.

"You're always so thoughtful!" Wilson went on, and threw his arms around Chris's neck. "I do appreciate it. Thank you."

Chris dropped his head for the kiss, and the expected peck turned into a smooch. Hot turkey wafted temptingly through the air, but they continued to consume only each other's lips. Chris sighed happily into Wilson's mouth, wishing for the moment to go on forever.

Then he felt Wilson's left hand snaking up inside his shirt, and suddenly this was a whole new ball game. Literally; the other hand was on his crotch.

The newly laundered shirt joined Wilson's dress shirt, suit and tie on the floor as they grappled with each other. First standing up, fingertips tracing shuddering tremors over tingling exposed skin; then lying down on the couch, naked flesh pressed against flesh. Chris lay back in silent ecstasy as Wilson's cock bumped against his own; they slid and skated together until Wilson came with a trembling gasp, and Chris with a more agonized cry, onto each other's stomachs.

* * *

  
Some time later, Chris woke to the sight of moonlight glinting through the window and Wilson sitting at the dining table wolfing turkey.

"Hey." Chris pulled himself into a sitting position, groggy.

"Hey." Wilson waved a fork at him. "Sorry I didn't wait. I was starving, and you were dead to the world."

"Five star orgasms do that to me," Chris deadpanned, reaching for clothes. "Is the food okay? It's been sitting out for a while."

"I put it back in the oven for a bit." Wilson shoveled down another mouthful of potatoes. "Want some?"

Chris yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Not now. I did eat earlier, feel like the moment's passed now."

They both sat for a while, Wilson eating and drinking, and Chris gradually sloughing off the sleep as he chatted back. He was starting to think perhaps he could manage a bit of cold turkey himself when suddenly Wilson screwed up his face and clutched at his stomach.

"Ugh. _Ugh_."

"What's up?" Chris was relaxed and mellow. He was with Wilson and all was right with the world.

"I think... I feel.... ugh. My stomach--my guts are tying themselves up in knots." Wilson rose to his feet and headed rapidly toward the bathroom. "Excuse me--"

Wilson was in a sufficient rush that he didn't stop to close the bathroom door behind him. Appalling retching sounds leaked into the living room. Chris winced; oh dear.

He wondered whether to follow, and decided to wait for a minute, give Wilson a little privacy. There came the sound of the toilet flushing, water running, and Wilson then came staggering back into the living room.

"You okay?" Chris said redundantly.

"Of course." Wilson's tone was breezy, but his face had lost all his color; his cheeks were chalky and his eyes were swimming. "Can't think what came over me. Uh--"

And the conversation terminated as Wilson turned and dashed back to the bathroom. Further retching sounds followed. Chris grimaced, and got up to follow. He found Wilson just getting to his feet in front of the toilet.

"You're not okay," Chris stated. "Can I help?"

"Could you get me some water maybe, thanks." Wilson dropped the lid down onto the toilet and hit the flush. He swayed slightly on his feet as he washed his hands. "I'm going to bed. Gotta lie down."

"You're the doctor." Chris attempted levity as he headed out to the kitchen. His eyes swung toward the dining table as he passed by. "Um.... was this the turkey?'

Wilson didn't answer. He didn't need to answer. Chris felt himself flush red; of _course_ it was the turkey. Wilson had been fine, he hadn't eaten anything in hours before coming home. He came home, ate turkey, was sick.

 _Crap, crap, crap._ Chris ran the kitchen faucet, waiting for the water to run cold, and wondered if he had a restaurant full of patrons throwing up right this moment, who would never come to the steakhouse again. Maybe they would all sue and bankrupt him.

But no, he'd had the turkey himself that afternoon and he was fine. Chris frowned, replayed events in his head. The turkey had been cooked earlier in the day. His chef had told him to be sure to reheat everything through thoroughly, and he had.

But... it had then sat out at room temperature for uh, too long. It had gone cold. Then Wilson had reheated it _again_. And perhaps not as thoroughly as he should have, after all he'd been tired, starving and probably kinda woozy after their tumble on the couch...

Chris headed into the bedroom with a glass of water to find Wilson already under the sheets. He put the glass down, and moved a hand to Wilson's forehead. Sweat prickled his fingertips.

"Thanks," Wilson mumbled. "Sorry. Lemme sleep for a while."

"Of course." Chris tiptoed out of the room, turning out the light and closing the door as quietly as possible.

* * *

  
It wasn't quite the Thanksgiving Chris had hoped for. Wilson periodically emerged from the bedroom to attempt to eat something like bananas or oatmeal, only to suffer stomach cramps and nausea almost immediately, and rush to the bathroom five minutes later. He couldn't keep anything down except water.

"Can I do anything? Get you anything?" Chris kept asking.

"No, I'm fine. Well, not fine, but... I just need to sweat it out for a couple days." Wilson mopped his forehead.

"You're awfully hot." Chris, really worried, couldn't even manage a knowing wink along with that comment.

"Low grade fever, quite normal for food poisoning." Wilson settled down into the bedclothes and grimaced. "I'm aching all over, but my head's the worst."

Chris shuffled his feet and bit out the words he'd hoped to avoid. "Should I call a doctor? Should I call...House?"

"No no no, there's no diagnostic mystery here," Wilson said with a small throaty laugh. "Let House have his Thanksgiving with his Mom in peace. It'll be nice for him, just the two of them."

House's father, Chris had just about gleaned, was off on some Thanksgiving trip to visit an ailing Marine buddy at the vet hospital.

"I just need rest and liquids," Wilson added. "Gotta avoid dehydration."

Chris crept away and occupied himself with Thanksgiving specials on TV and guilt.

* * *

  
House appeared two days later, knocking loudly on the door and hollering, "Wilson. Your friendly neighborhood psycho's back."

Chris opened the door, and House's initial scowl became positively murderous. "You still here? Thanksgiving was days ago."

"Wilson's been sick," Chris muttered, moving aside to let House in. "Food poisoning. He's getting better now."

"Food poisoning." House rolled the words over his tongue. "Really! Did you cook, by any chance?"

"No." Chris wasn't going to let House have that over him. He knew Wilson wouldn't give him away. "Have a nice Thanksgiving, House? Family occasion, right?"

House's death glare didn't cow Chris, but he stood back and let House stomp off into the bedroom. A few minutes later House returned and said, "Wilson-sitting no longer necessary, Say your goodbyes."

Chris didn't want to appear to be driven away by House, but neither did he wish to stick around if House was going to take root in Wilson's apartment. And he _did_ need to get home; he had work to do. He went into the bedroom and found Wilson propped up on pillows. There was more color in his cheeks than there had been earlier.

"How're you doing?" Chris was tentative.

"Better, I think. Look, don't feel you need to stay." Wilson came straight to the point. "I know you should've gone back already."

"Are you sure?" Chris was a little relieved.

"Absolutely, I don't need looking after anymore, and House'll throw bananas at me if he thinks I'm not eating enough," Wilson assured him. "Go. Call me tomorrow."

"Will do." Chris stooped for a kiss, and ruffled Wilson's hair with fingertips.

* * *

  
He headed out into the living room to find House standing with the front door already open. Chris deliberately took his time gathering together his stuff and shrugging on his jacket.

"You know what this means?" House asked as he ushered Chris out the door. Without waiting for a reply, House went on with some satisfaction, "I get him for Christmas."

Chris stuck a finger up behind his back, in House's general direction, as he walked down the garden path.

END

 **A/N** This fits into [The Story of Chris](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68501/chapters/90382), between chapters [8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68501/chapters/90395) and [9](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68501/chapters/90398).


End file.
